Eden
by irishais
Summary: Seven years spent waiting for it all to come back around again. SeiferxQuistis, SquallxRinoa. Complete.
1. forget me nots

**i. forget-me-nots**

"They'll string me up," he said casually over breakfast one day, "and burn me like a witch." 

"A warlock," she corrected, not bothering to glance up from the day's newspaper. 

"A warlock, then," he amended, and slathered some jam onto his toast. The knife scratched across the surface of the bread with an almost malicious intent. "One day, they'll do it. You'll see." 

Quistis snorted derisively and neatly refolded the paper, holding it out in his direction. "Do you want this?" 

He snorted. "Burn it. That's about the only thing it's good for. It can't even rightfully be called news. You want more coffee?" 

A neatly manicured eyebrow raised as if to point out the absurdity of his question. In Quistis Trepe's universe, coffee was on par with _breathing_. There was never a question as to whether or not she wanted any more. Seifer plucked her coffee mug out from her hands and crossed to the other side of the kitchen. 

"Why?" she asked, returning to the topic at hand. 

"Because I'm an asshole." He shrugged and sat back down, passing her the mug. "With Leonhart's new promotion, they'll remember that. They'll remember how he got the damn job in the first place." 

"Just because he's going to be making an obscene amount of money just by breathing now doesn't mean the witch hunt is going to happen all over again." Quistis always added exactly half a teaspoon of sugar to her coffee, and did so now, stirring it in with a relaxed hand, the spoon clinking against the side of the mug. 

There was a pause, and then Seifer laughed. "Nice choice of words, there." 

"What?" 

"Witch hunt." 

Quistis shrugged primly. "You started it. You said they were going to burn you at the stake. What would that be, though? A show of the Commander's good faith toward the people?" 

"Probably." Seifer sipped his coffee–it had become slightly lighter brown due to the amount of cream he had dumped in there. He had never been able to drink it black, no matter how many times he had tried; today was no different, and he was relatively sure that tomorrow's coffee would be ingested the same way. "I wouldn't put it past him." 

"Seifer..." Her tone was infinitely patient, the one that always made Seifer feel like a first-year cadet again when she leveled it on him. "The war is over. No one is going to kill you." 

"Really." 

"Really." Quistis reached across the table and speared an uneaten sausage off of his plate with her fork. "Trust me. Squall would never rescind a pardon, especially one almost six years old, just because he got a bigger paycheck." 

Seifer rolled his eyes, and Quistis smiled around the rim of her coffee cup. "Finish your breakfast," she added sweetly, and got up to put her plate in the sink. 

_xx_

Balamb Garden's ballroom was half filled with military officials of every rank and nation, from the world-weary SeeDs of Trabia to the pompous stuffed suits of Galbadia to the still-slightly-uncertain Esthar Garden representatives, and Squall Leonhart could not remember the name of the petite lieutenant in front of him to save his life. She had been carrying on about all the good that President Loire had done for Esthar Garden, how much she admired the man, and how honored she was to finally meet _the_ Squall Leonhart in person, as if Squall hadn't visited Esthar Garden a hundred times in its first two years. 

He tuned out most of what she was saying as he craned his neck to scan the crowd for his wife with the hope that Rinoa would be able to rid him of this obviously insane girl. 

Wasn't Esthar Garden supposed to give their new recruits a psych screening or something?

"Commander Leonhart, if it's not too forward, I was wondering if you'd like to dance," the lieutenant finally blurted, and Squall sighed. He should have been anticipating that, and he opened his mouth to hopefully shoot down the lieutenant politely when a gentle hand clad in red satin touched his elbow. 

"There you are," Rinoa murmured. "I've been looking for you." 

He could have kissed her then, and instead settled for offering his wife his arm. "Excuse me," he said to the lieutenant, who smiled faintly and nodded, slipping away into the crowd. Squall let out a breath of relief when the woman was finally gone, and turned his attention to Rinoa. "What is it?" 

"The press wants a photo," Rinoa reminded him. "And by one photo, I mean several hundred, but you _did_ agree." 

"I don't remember that," he retorted automatically, a ghost of a smile at the edges of his lips. "I'm sure they just want pictures of you." Rinoa laughed, and hit his forearm gently, her glove softening an already feather-light blow. Her dress, a sleek red floor-length gown, had been specially designed and imported from Esthar for the occasion, and Squall reached out to lift a rogue curl of dark hair off of one bare shoulder. 

"To the firing squad," she said gaily, and led him away through the throng. 

_xx_

"They'll string me up by my toes, then. Or stone me to death." 

"This is all getting very macabre, Seifer. And don't sit on my desk. I have work to do." Lightly, she pressed a palm against his hip, enough to make him raise up so that she could rescue a sheaf of papers from being destroyed by his jeans. "I want to get everything done before the commander's ceremony tonight." 

"A bunch of overstuffed military windbags," Seifer responded with an expression of mock horror. "You would rather spend time with them than with me." 

"Seifer, you're sitting on my pen. How do you not notice these things?" He moved again, and Quistis retrieved the writing implement. "As much as I would love to spend my evening in your company, all of Balamb's SeeDs are going. If I didn't go, I would probably get fired." 

Seifer finally hopped off her desk, stepping around her chair and putting his hands on her shoulders. She leaned back into his touch gratefully. "Leonhart wouldn't fire you. He depends way too fucking much on you to fire you." He worked his thumb into a knot on her right shoulder, and Quistis let out a little pleased noise. 

"Mm. You're right." 

"Someone call the press," he snorted, running his hands up the back of her neck. 

"Ass. Oh, right there."

His fingers continued to move, applying gentle pressure to overworked muscles. "'Course," Seifer mused, sliding his fingers briefly through the hair at her nape and then back down again, "knowing Garden, it would be a firing squad. Leonhart is a traditionalist." 

"Seifer," Quistis said with a sigh, leaning her head back to look at him through half-lidded eyes. "Squall is not going to have you killed. Please stop talking about it. What is with this new obsession anyway?" 

He shrugged. "Maybe I'm just upset about losing my prominent notoriety." 

"That would be a blow to your ego." She slid out from under his hands and picked up her pen again. "I really have to get this done." 

"I see," he said, and planted a chaste kiss to her temple. "I know when I'm not wanted." 

_xx_

The balcony was surprisingly empty, littered only here and there with a few discreet couples, and as Rinoa slipped her arm from his and leaned against the railing, the oppressive air of the ballroom had lifted. Squall stood, hands still against the cool stone of the rail, breathing deep the salty sea air. He had spent his youngest years in an orphanage by the sea. Without it, his world seemed almost oppressive, like the air had become harder to breathe because it was missing...something. 

Rinoa watched him unabashedly as he stood there, something hidden in her gaze that gave him the perpetual feeling that he amused her in some way. "Better?"

"Much better." He glanced over at her. "We'll go soon." 

"It's alright. I don't mind this. And it's your party, anyway." 

He raised his eyebrows and looked at her as if he hadn't considered that before. "Technically, then, I could go back in there and tell everyone to go home." The idea was more intriguing than he would ever admit. 

"You could." Rinoa smiled at him, something in the curve of her lips decidedly encouraging him in this plan. "And then maybe we could go try to see without being blinded by flashbulbs." 

"Yeah." He raked a hand back through his hair with a sigh. "That would be the day." 

She tilted her head back then, her eyes fixed on the night sky above, and let him have the last word of the little skirmish. 

They had been to space, and to Squall, there was no reason to go back, but Rinoa somehow,_somehow after the thin mechanical voice had told her she was running out of air_, was still drawn to something in the stars. He didn't get it. He didn't even _pretend_ to get it, just let her watch the sky if it was what made her happy. 

He shrugged out of his uniform jacket and settled it around her shoulders, the movement so graceful with his soldier's training that Rinoa did not even register what had happened until a moment after the fabric had settled. 

"Don't you need this?" she asked. "In there?" 

"I'm their commander," he reminded her, and it would have taken a Garden-trained voice analyst to detect the teasing note in his voice, or the keen instincts of his wife. "What are they going to say?" 

She laughed. "Rebel." 

"I'm going to go tell Quistis that we're heading out early," he said, and walked at a staid, measured pace back through the crowd, and Rinoa thought that if it weren't for the ramrod posture, the slightly more muscular build and the neater kempt hair, he might still have passed for that awkward new SeeD she had asked to dance seven years past. 

A gentle wind slid across the back of her neck, and Rinoa tugged her husband's uniform jacket tighter around her frame. 

"Mrs. Leonhart–" 

She sighed, and put a bright and practiced smile on her lips for the photographer. 

_xx_

"I don't see why I can't go." 

Quistis watched her reflection with a critical eye as she finished knotting her uniform tie. As much as she hated wearing the thing–the long lapels were nowhere near battle worthy, and whoever had decided that the short skirts were a good idea would not want to meet Quistis Trepe–it did make dressing for these formal events much, much easier. 

"Seifer..." 

He flopped back on the bed, deliberately rumpling covers and hiking his t-shirt up over his ribs. Seifer let it lay like that, and lazily rolled his eyes in her direction. 

"You just spent the entire day convinced that Squall was going to open up a witch hunt against you with this new promotion, and now you wonder why you weren't invited?" 

He rolled his eyes deliberately this time, and gestured in the general direction of the ceiling. "If he does," Seifer pronounced, "I want to be there for it." 

"It isn't going to happen." 

"How do you know?" 

She glanced upward in a "why me" gesture, unsure even if there was a higher power present. If there was, they certainly were having a lot of fun at her expense today. "I'll get out as early as I can, if it makes you feel any better." 

"Depends." He propped himself up on one elbow. "What do we get to do after you get back?"

Quistis ignored him and sat on a spare corner of the bed, tugging her stockings back into an arrangement that better suited her toes. She looked at the black heels that had been unceremoniously dropped on the carpet earlier, and then back at Seifer. He grinned. 

With a sigh, Quistis curled the toes of her left food around the heel of the shoe and dragged it across the carpet towards her. She tried very hard to ignore the deliberately light pressure of Seifer's palm against the small of her back as she slid her feet into the shoes. 

"Don't wait up," she said, and pressed her lips against his with the promise of things to come, her fingertips brushing against his neck as she pulled away and headed for the door. 

"Tease!" he called, his tone good humored even as he chucked one of the decorative pillows at her. It bounced off the door frame with surprising accuracy, and Seifer dropped back against the remainder of the bedding. 

_xx_

"Where is your jacket?" Quistis hissed as Squall approached, nodding briefly at several guests in his path. She eyed the plain grey button down shirt he had under it, the collar a thin band that wouldn't show above the uniform neckline. Standard issue, designed to not be seen, but look acceptable if it was, and here came the youngest commander in Garden history walking through his own party wearing it. So much for public image. The press was going to have a field day once the pictures got out. "There are paparazzi everywhere..." 

"Quistis," Squall interrupted, cutting off her tirade with a brief shake of his head. "Rinoa and I are leaving soon. Can you take care of winding everything down?" 

She blinked at him, but her expression shifted quickly with a sigh. "You never change," she commented with a resigned smile. 

He eyed her curiously. "I hope I have." 

"You've always hated these things," Quistis elaborated, sidestepping the awkward moment deftly as she waved a hand at their surroundings. The commander _had_ changed; they all had in the seven years since Ultimecia, since the war, since–

She brushed aside a fleeting thought of the cowboy and his little sunshine. Tonight was not meant for mourning. Quistis had done her grieving, said her speeches, shined their lives like badges not to be forgotten. It was the soldier's way, and to her core, Quistis Trepe had never been anything but a soldier. 

Squall nodded, the gesture not as awkward as it had been when he was still her student. Here, it was merely a motion, easily done by a man not too fond of words. Words could be manipulated, twisted, turned into a thousand things. Actions were what they were, nothing more, nothing less.

"Thank you," he said, and drifted back into the crowd to find his wife. 

He did not have to look very far, because from somewhere out on the balcony came a scream. 

_xx_

Damn ghosts. 

Seifer ambled through Garden's deserted halls, ignoring the SeeD guards posted at every strategic point, and thought about crashing the party anyway, if for no reason than it might take his attention away from the spirits that seemed to be following him at every corner. 

_I can see you. _

He turned into the stairwell leading to the second floor, and was assaulted by a phantom. 

Fujin reached a pale hand out of the shadows and stopped him with a touch to his forearm before Seifer headed up the stairs, and for a moment, there was a flash of Ultimecia behind his eyes and he blinked _hard_ to wipe it away. 

"Aren't you supposed to be dead?" 

Fujin rolled her eye. "Idiot." 

"You had better be dead; we buried you." Seifer rested his arms on the railing of the stairs and looked her over critically. "You look pretty good for a dead woman." 

"Shut up," Fujin said mildly, brushing back light brown bangs courtesy of Balamb Garden's wardrobe department. She had wiped off most of the makeup, he saw, the dim lighting revealing faint smudges along the hairline of her wig. "Commander Leonhart?" 

Seifer jerked his chin in the direction of the second floor. "Busy having a party," he said, not bothering to hide any of the disgust in his voice. "You would think that he would have better things to do, like run a Garden." 

"Screw Rinoa," Fujin added casually, flipping a lock of the wig back over her shoulder in a rather good imitation of the sorceress. Seifer chuckled, and tossed his arm around Fujin's shoulder. She slipped from his hold with practiced ease with a roll of her eye. 

"Come on, let's go crash us a party." 

Fujin gave him a once-over of her own, taking in the rumpled Garden Athletics Department t-shirt and worn-in jeans that had seen one too many laundry cycles courtesy of Quistis, who could not let laundry go for more than two days. Fujin finished her examination with a glance at his old sneakers. "Classy," she proclaimed, and Seifer offered her his arm in an exaggerated gesture. She looked at it. "Wash it first." 

He feigned hurt. "Bitch."

Fujin simply smiled primly at him, and led the way up the stairs. 

_xx_

There was something wrong; the flash from the camera came too low, flaring dimly and accompanied by a quiet _pop_.

_Something hurts._

She touched her stomach with a satin-gloved hand, and felt warmth. 

_Pop. _

Rinoa wasn't sure when her legs had given way beneath her, only that suddenly, the stone floor seemed much closer than it had been. Somewhere near her, by the doors, someone was screaming–_"Oh my god, oh my god"_– and someone's hands were on her shoulder, turning her on her back and she saw the stars, winking and glittering, blurring themselves in and out of her vision–"_Rinoa_!"

It took a great force of effort to keep her eyes open, and so she let them close, the stars blinking out as her eyelids slid down–_"Rin, wake up– someone call Kadowaki, tell her we've got a situation"–_

and then her ears shut off with her sight, leaving only the pressure of hands against her gut, but it didn't take very long before that sense disappeared, too. 

_xx_

"Here." 

Quistis didn't argue as Seifer pressed a styrene cup of coffee into her hands, just lifted to her lips and took a long pull of the drink, not caring that it was hot, not caring that it seared her tongue. Her taste buds told her that it was slightly burnt. She didn't care much about that either. 

"Thanks," she said, and lapsed back into silence, her eyes making another sweep of the corridor above the rim of the cup. 

"How long has she been in there?" he asked, inclining his head to the door at her back. Above them, a blue-lit sign declared "Operation In Progress." 

"A few hours," she said, and glanced into the cup, swirling the contents with more concentration than it really required. Seifer settled himself against the wall just to her left, crossing his arms and tilting his head back against the wall. A casual observer would have pegged him for weary, but it was false and practiced nonchalance; any trained soldier would see the coiled lines of his body and know that he was ready to strike at a moment's notice. 

Seven years since being spat out of Time Compression into a flower field in Winhill– or so he claimed– and he was still anticipating someone to leap out and attack him from every corner. Six years since Squall had granted a pardon declaring the greatest war criminal of all time to be acquitted of all charges provided he remain in Balamb Garden's custody. 

The order had been to "lay low" when the commander had called Seifer to his office. Seifer Almasy, whose ego thrived on notoriety, stripped of glory, of weaponry, of even his old tattered coat. At the time, he had seemed shrunken without it, deflated, but as time passed, and as she grew to know him (and then know him), he was lighter for its loss. 

There was no label between them, because it would have meant something. Quistis had thought he hadn't wanted it to mean anything and had tried to school her mind into believing the same, that the matter of his moving of a box or two of meager possessions into her apartment had simply been a matter of course after three years of...whatever it was. He had been spending most of his nights there, anyway. 

She wondered, briefly, if she were to ask him what they were now, what he would say. 

Overhead, the "Operation In Progress" light winked out, and across the hallway, Squall jerked his head up as the doors slid open. 

Seifer huffed quietly. "She can't die. She's a fucking sorceress." 

"Shut up, Seifer," Quistis murmured, and watched as Squall listened to the surgeon, his face a mask of indecipherable emotion, absorbing all the facts and figures with brief nods. It was enough to indicate that he heard and comprehended. 

It had been his tactic for twenty-six years, and it would work now. 

"She's in recovery. Would you like to see her?" 

Squall looked over the doctor's shoulder at Quistis, and gave a barely imperceptible tilt of his head. Quistis knew a dismissal when she saw one, and Seifer put his arm around her shoulders to lead her out of the surgical wing, out of the ICU, out through the small lobby of Balamb Hospital's emergency wing, and out to the parking lot where he unlocked the car doors for her and slipped into the driver's seat. The ten minute ride was done in silence, and Quistis was grateful for it. 

_xx_

Later, when he was half-asleep with the cadence that a brief summer storm drummed against the window, she slid under the covers next to him and nestled her head against her forearm to regard him seriously. 

"What?" Seifer mumbled, draping an arm around her waist and shifting her closer to him, reassured by the warmth of her skin against his. It was proof that some deep-rooted part of him required, the knowledge that they were both still alive. It was some combination of soldier's instinct and sheer human need that made him do it, and Quistis let him have that without complaint. 

She rested a warm palm on his shoulder, one finger gliding absently along the curve down his neck. "Nothing. I'm just thinking." 

"You think too much." 

She smiled briefly at that. "Says you." 

"Touche." 

A small laugh escaped her lips at that, and Seifer kissed her forehead, but neither made any move to speak again. She burrowed against him in the silence. 

Somewhere back in the living room of her apartment, her mobile phone let out a sharp ring. 

"Ignore it," Seifer said, his voice turning husky in her ear as he ran a hand down her arm. Quistis wished like hell that she could as his lips glanced over the line of her jaw. 

"I can't." 

Quistis threw aside the covers and went to do her job. 

_xx_

–"_It's time to wake up"– _it hurt to open her eyes, hurt too much to look at the light again, and so she fought to remain in the comforting embrace of the darkness, so very warm and quiet – "_Rinoa, it's time to wake up." _

_I don't want to wake up. _

"_Rinoa..." _

_No. I like it here. I don't want to wake up. _

The voice was stubborn, stubborn like her husband, stubborn like her ex-lover, stubborn like young Rinny Heartilly, all caught up in the startling ideals that she could change the world. A soft thum-tha-_thump_ in her ears, the beating of her heart, the rushing of her blood. 

It was serene, silent, comforting. It didn't hurt here; pain seemed to be a vague and distant thing, and when she tried to reach for it, her synapses were sluggish, unresponsive, sated and dull with the lure of the dark. She looked up and she could sort of see the stars, flickering in front of her, tiny pinpricks of light, faint at first and growing the closer she looked. 

She did not know how long she stood there, only that she could hear the thum-tha-_thump _of her heart, and that the voice had gone silent. 

_I like it here_, she repeated, and the words fell from her lips like a favorite song. 

Thum-tha-_thump_. Thum-tha-_thump_. Thum-tha-_thump_.

"_Rinoa..."_

_Go away._

"_Rinoa..." _

_Go _away.

"_Rinoa...it's time to wake up." _

The lights became searing beams, hard, hard to look at and so she closed her eyes tight against them, pinpricks still slipping through that stung at her pupils. 

"_Rinoa!"_

The light worked its way between her lashes, forcing her eyelids apart like a lever.

And the voice called her name again, again, again. 

"Rinoa?" 

She felt the pressure of Squall's hand on hers as her eyes betrayed her and she blinked hard against the unforgiving fluorescent lights. For a moment so brief that she may well have imagined it, Rinoa mourned the loss of the darkness. 

The voice in the back of her head whispered, _it's time to wake up, Rinoa_.


	2. the rose garden

**ii: the rose garden**

Commander Squall Leonhart put very little faith in newspaper headlines, especially those that came out of Galbadia. He lifted the copy of the _Galbadia Post_ that Quistis had dropped on his desk and skimmed the headline above the fold with abject disinterest. 

"It's not true." 

"I know it's not," she replied steadily. "What I want to know is why it's _there_."

Squall folded the paper neatly in half and passed it back to her. "I couldn't begin to tell you." 

Ignoring the paper in his outstretched hand, Quistis glared at him. "Aren't you going to do something about it?" 

"I don't control the media." Squall shrugged, and dumped the newspaper into the trash bin next to his desk. 

"Can't you do something? Damage control?" 

"Calm down," he said wearily, and sat back in his chair. Garden had certainly had its fair share of insulting headlines, especially after the war, and_especially_ after Squall had issued the pardon for Seifer Almasy. When it seemed to get to be too much, Squall took comfort in the fact that he led a mercenary-for-hire organization. They weren't supposed to be reputable, just efficient in getting their contracts accomplished. 

Of course, it didn't really help matters that Squall was not exactly in the mood to deal with enraged faculty today. "I don't know what you want me to do." 

"'Seifer Almasy Suspected in Attack on Rinoa Leonhart'," Quistis said through clenched teeth. "He wasn't even in the same _room_when it happened, Squall. You have to issue a statement or something." 

"Quistis." His voice was infuriatingly patient, and Quistis reined in all of her impulses to chuck any and all of the office supplies within her reach at him. "You and I both know he had nothing to do with it. And you know that Martine will do anything to get Almasy's name back in the papers." 

She remained stonily silent. In comparison, Squall felt almost loquacious as he continued, "Rinoa is alive. We have firsthand witness statements that absolutely confirm Seifer was not the shooter. We have Fujin's testimony. We have your testimony, and we have all the video feed from the ballroom. He's not guilty." 

"Galbadia is going to be in an uproar over this. If bullshit like this warrants front page news, who knows what will happen next?" 

_They'll burn me like a witch. _

Squall pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers and let out a hiss of a sigh. "I'll issue a statement." 

"Thank you. That's all I wanted." Quistis stood, her chair sliding smoothly back across the wooden floor. 

Squall nodded. There was supposed to be a press conference later that afternoon; he would make sure that Galbadia's rumors were taken care of before they got to be too much. He checked the clock on his computer, discovering that Quistis's tirade had taken up far more time than he had anticipated. He had made a promise to Rinoa that he would only be gone for three hours, and his clock was ticking down to the deadline. "Keep Almasy under control," Squall said by way of dismissal. He held the door open for her as she stalked out of the office. 

_Warlock. _

_A warlock, then. _

_xx_

"What did Leonhart say?" Seifer asked by way of greeting as Quistis seated herself across from him. The cafeteria was buzzing with the usual student chatter, rumors of Rinoa's mysterious assault the primary subject of conversation. Quistis, however, was keenly aware of all the eyes that kept flicking to their table from students who had definitely kept up with the current news. 

She deliberately ignored them, stirring half a packet of sugar into her cup of coffee. "He'll issue a statement," Quistis told him.

"A statement. That's it?" 

"It's all he can do. He doesn't, and I quote, 'control the media'." 

"He _would_ say something like that," Seifer said derisively. "But on the plus side, it means I was sort of right." 

Quistis set down her cup and sighed. "Seifer, this is simply probably Martine bribing the press to try to stir things up. We have an absolute metric ton of evidence that points to your innocence. Don't worry about it." 

_They'll string me up by my toes, then. Or stone me to death. _

She studiously ignored the voice in the back of her mind and jabbed up a clump of lettuce with her fork. Seifer studied her as she chewed. 

"What?" she asked, her voice more irritable than she had intended. His gaze had gotten too intense, the silence too pronounced. 

"Nothing," he mimicked. The impression was not flattering. "Nothing at all." 

_xx_

She was sitting up when he entered, and smiled at his shocked face until he realized that the back of the bed had simply been raised, and the controls were grasped loosely in her hand. 

"Hi." 

"Hey." Squall gave her a brief kiss and sat in his customary chair, drawn up close to the bedside. "Sorry I'm late." 

Rinoa's smile grew more amused. The clock behind him had clicked over to his promised arrival time only thirty seconds before her husband had walked in the door. "I'll forgive you," she said jokingly, "but only just this once." 

He rolled his eyes. "Are you feeling alright?" 

"Fine," she said, gauged the response too quick, and tried again. "I'm feeling much better." Rinoa watched as Squall surveyed the intravenous tubes running down from a metal rack into her arm. 

"I would hope so, with all that they've got you on," he said, his lips curving into a smile as he reached for her hand, sliding his fingers under her palm.

She made a noncommittal noise, and squeezed his hand gently. "I'll be alright. I'm immortal until I pass on my powers, remember?" 

His expression sobered. "Yeah, but that doesn't mean you're invulnerable," he reminded her quietly. 

_Backtrack seven years, to a younger boy and a younger girl, an infirmary, and Kadowaki's patient voice telling him that she didn't know if Rinoa would ever wake up. A younger man carrying a younger woman across the never-ending bridge to Esthar on his back in a single afternoon. _

His grasp on her hand now tightened a bit; she could feel the cool pressure of his wedding band against her fingers. 

"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice gentle, soothing to nerves he would never admit to being frayed. Squall's grasp on her hand loosened minutely. 

"I'm alright." He offered her a more genuine smile, the private one he reserved only for her. "You are, so I am." 

"That was cheesy," Rinoa murmured, her head lolling back against the pillows, her smile softening. Squall leaned forward. 

"Are you alright?" 

"Tired," she replied absently. "It's probably just the medication." 

He sat back in his chair and nodded briefly. "You should get some more sleep, anyway. You shouldn't push yourself." 

"Yes, sir." The words came out a mumble, and Squall worked the buttons to lower the top half of the bed until she lay horizontal again. It didn't take long before her soft, even breathing was barely audible over the dull beep and thrum of the machines.

_xx_

_A revolution is coming._

_Are you sure? _

He hears, but he does not comprehend– the drumbeats are growing louder, the soldiers' footsteps falling in a steady march across packed ground (left, left, left, right, left). 

Which way is the battlefield? Where is his grand arena? 

_This is your war. Your glory. Your dream_. 

He spins, and Hyperion is heavy in his hand, throwing him off, sending him reeling like a top into stringy grey clouds. 

(Left, left, left, right, left). 

His feet are marching, his arms moving in time, wires in his knees and in his wrists, and someone is pulling all the strings. 

(Left, left, left, right, left.)

_I am not your marionette!_

And she cackles, whispering from a hundred different directions that he is wrong. 

_xx_

"Sir, how do you feel about Galbadia's recent declarations?" 

"Commander Leonhart, how will this affect your status as leader of Balamb Garden?" 

"What can you tell us about Seifer Almasy? Are you still extending protection to him after what Headmaster Martine's said?" 

Camera flashes went off from all sides, and Squall schooled his features into absolute impassivity. "Headmaster Martine has issued a slanderous statement against Almasy. Balamb Garden has ample information that disproves what Galbadia's newspapers are saying." 

"Sir, so you're saying you aren't concerned at all about the rumors circulating?" 

"Seifer Almasy is innocent." 

"Commander! What about your wife? Does she have any comment?" 

"No comment." 

"Why do you think someone shot her?" 

"I have no idea." 

"Sir, people are saying that it's because her sorceress abilities are becoming a danger to the population. What do you think?" 

"My wife is not a threat." 

"Well, what if she becomes one? What will you do?" 

"No comment." 

_Burn the witch. _

He scanned the crowd sharply, brow furrowed, and Quistis caught his expression, rising gracefully from her seat. 

"Thank you all for coming. No further questions, please." 

"_Leonhart_, sir, commander, Squall, Commander, _Commander Leonhart!_ Sir, _sir_, sir!" 

The doors slammed behind the last of the paparazzi, and Squall yanked at the collar of his uniform before he could stop himself, undoing the top button as he sat back in the cold, unforgiving metal chair. 

_Burn the witch._

"All clear, sir," Xu said, clipping her radio back to her belt. "The garage should be clear if you want to get out of here and see your wife." 

He nodded. "Thanks." 

As he walked through the nearly deserted halls of Garden, Squall reflected that Quistis had impeccable timing when it came to ending the conference. No cadets, no reporters, no one to bother him, except...

"Almasy," he greeted coolly. 

"Leonhart." 

The knight fell into step beside him as Squall turned the corner and headed for the elevator. Without faltering, Squall said, "I don't want you to go visit Rinoa." 

"Won't that make me look more guilty?" Seifer sneered without missing a beat. "I didn't shoot her, and I'm not going to do anything that'll give Galbadia more crap to write about me." 

"I've issued a statement." 

Seifer let out a bark of laughter. "Like that will actually stop anyone." He pressed the button before Squall could get to it, and the commander rolled his eyes, stepping back as the doors slid open and several SeeDs exited.

"Instructor Trepe is still in the conference room, if you're looking for her." He stepped inside the waiting elevator car and the doors started to slide closed. 

Seifer's hand slammed against one of them, forcing the doors back open. "I'm dreaming about her again," he said abruptly. 

"Rinoa?" The irritation in Squall's voice was stronger than he had banked on for such an offhand response. Funny, that. He thumbed the "door close" button. 

"No, you idiot." 

The commander stopped, his hand still on the control bank. "Ultimecia." 

"Forget it," Seifer said curtly. "Just forget it." 

He stepped back and let the doors close. 

_xx_

She hadn't even noticed that she had nicked her index finger on the knife until she glanced down and realized that cucumbers generally weren't supposed to have red juice. With a sigh, Quistis shut off the faucet, the stream of hot water dissipating into nothing but a few final drips. A cursory examination of the wound revealed little more than a thin slice, some rogue drops of blood still oozing up through the cut. There were no bandages to be found in a brief rummage through the drawers, and so she had settled for tearing a paper towel into shreds and making do. 

It was as she was putting the finishing touches on her paper bandage that Seifer entered, his eyes narrowed and his lips set in a perfectly horizontal line. 

"Hello." 

He gave her only the briefest of glances before disappearing into the bathroom and slamming the door behind him. It rattled in its frame. 

She looked down and found that her finger was still bleeding, the red dots spreading across the pristine white of the towel. 

"Are there any bandages in there?" she called. 

There was the sound of things thumping, things falling, and Quistis was fairly certain that the next time she entered the bathroom, all the medicine cabinet's contents would be in the sink. 

The door jerked open, and Seifer handed her one, the wrapper already torn off of it. 

"Thanks." 

He watched her as she peeled away her makeshift wrappings. "What happened?" 

"Culinary accident," she replied, smiling in an effort to lighten his mood. "Nothing a qualified SeeD can't handle." 

The joke fell flat. Seifer leaned against the door frame and regarded her like she was some sort of curious specimen under glass. Quistis had long ago learned how to deal with that look; she caught his gaze and held it, to let him know that she had caught on to the trick. 

"Did you know," he said, "that Leonhart has ordered me to not see Rinoa?" 

Quistis shook her head, breaking the impromptu stare down. "Why?" 

Seifer shrugged, and his response was clear in the movement alone: _I don't know, that's why I asked you_. "Didn't you ever learn not to answer a question with a question?"

"Squall is doing damage control right now, Seifer. I'm sure he has a reason for keeping you away from Rinoa. It would put you right in the middle of the public spotlight; you'd probably be better off staying out of that sort of mess." Quistis moved away from the bathroom door and headed back into the kitchen. There was blood drying on the cutting board, and she attacked it with a sponge before Seifer could comment on it. 

He hovered in front of the refrigerator, glancing from magnet to scarce magnet. The shopping list, the latest inter-Garden faculty memos, one ridiculous candid photo that Selphie had snapped before...before. 

"Damage control," he murmured. "Right." 

The sounds of her cleaning stopped. "I thought you wanted that. Unless you suddenly want to be burned at the stake, as you so aptly put it." 

He shook his head. "I was waiting for the other shoe to drop," he said. 

"I think it already has."


	3. lilies in the dirt

**iii. lilies in the dirt**

Thum-tha-_thump_.

She stands on the edge of a precipice, looking up at the stars. 

Thum-tha-_thump_.

Heart beating, blood rushing, lungs expanding, contracting. Something _else_ is there, something with the blood and the oxygen, something almost like the synapses in her cells firing. She knows what it is. She has spent seven years coming to terms with it. 

"_Rinoa...It's time to wake up." _

_You keep saying that. _

She reaches one hand up and draws a line across the sky with her finger. The stars blur away under her touch, and so she takes a moment to experiment, dotting at the blurry patch where the sky used to be. 

After a few moments of deliberation, some rearranging of the constellations, the sky is whole again. She moves one tiny star an inch to the left, and steps back to examine her work. 

_Why should I wake up? I'm already awake; moving, eating, sleeping–dreaming like this. Isn't that what being awake really is?_

The Voice laughs, a throaty sound like a snake's hiss, like Eden is still junctioned in Rinoa's mind. 

"_Your naivety is impressive." _

When Rinoa looks away from the stars to confront the voice, (_I am not a child!_) the ground beyond her little ledge of rock is a pit of fire, and her world is shaking apart, the stars expanding, expanding, _expanding_ until they explode. 

_xx_

She woke, fighting against a strangling white phantom. 

"Rinoa?" Squall's voice, Squall's hands pulling hers away from the sheet that she had managed to tangle herself in, _Squall_. "What's wrong?" 

When she could find her voice again, it faltered, and so she cleared her throat and tried again. "Nothing. A dream." 

"About?" 

"I don't remember." She settled back against the pillows, letting out a little hiss of discomfort at the motion, and Squall made the slightest shift toward the call button. Rinoa did not miss the motion. "I'm fine. I don't need anything." 

"Are you sure?" 

"You worry too much." 

His mobile phone buzzed then, and he snatched the device off the small tray mounted on the side of Rinoa's bed. She watched his brow furrow, and tracked his path as he stood and crossed to the doorway. "Leonhart," he said quietly, and listened. 

She studied his profile against the stark white of the door until she fell asleep again. 

_xx_

The fire spell was junctioned. It would take very, very little magic to incinerate the whole stack of newspapers on her desk, Quistis decided, and touched the edge of the topmost paper with a finger. 

"You'll burn the fucking building down, if you do that," Seifer commented, watching her from the chair on the opposite side, one closed fist propping his head up by his cheekbone. 

"You'd rather I didn't?" 

He shrugged. "Do it anyway." 

Quistis withdrew her hand and turned her attention back to the glowing computer screen, where sixty-three new messages urgently demanded her attention. She selected "Delete all" and relished in the chime that the program made as it devoured her mail. 

"I told you. I _told_ you," he said, glaring at the newspapers. 

A soft knock interjected his tirade, and Quistis gave permission to enter. A young cadet, probably only fifth year or so, stood in the doorway with a covered tray. She looked from Seifer to Quistis, ill-trained to disguise her unease. "Ma'am?" 

"Here, just bring it here." Quistis tapped her desk with a sigh, and the cadet moved further into the office, stopping a foot shy of the desk when she found no clear space to set the tray down. Seifer groaned and lifted it out of the cadet's hands, dropping the delivered breakfast on top of the stack of newspapers with an audible thump and a clatter of dishes. "Dismissed," Quistis said, and the cadet saluted hastily, making a quick retreat for the door. 

Quistis pulled the lid from the tray and set it aside, surveying the limp cafeteria salad with an air of dismay. "You're under Garden's protection, anyway," she reminded him as she tore the wrapping off of the plastic fork. 

He snorted. "This is some sort of protection. I could move more freely after the war when everyone knew who the hell I was because of what I actually _did_ than I can now because Martine's a bribing, lying asshole." 

"We'll figure it out," Quistis said, tearing open a plastic packet of salad dressing and drizzling it over her lunch. "You'll just have to stay out of Galbadia." 

The laugh that he emitted was not anything like a pleasant sound. "Like I would want to go back there anyway," he said. "I'd probably be chased down with pitchforks and torches the second I got off the train." 

"Most likely." 

He shifted in the chair, and sighed. Quistis focused her attention on a forkful of lettuce in the silence that passed between them. 

"Go to ground, then, if it bothers you that much." 

"Why should I? I'm innocent. Martine's the one who ought to be locked up." The chair did not slide back easily against the rough office carpet, and when Seifer stood, he caught the back of it with one hand to keep it from hitting the floor. "I'm going to the training center." 

"Okay." 

She let him leave without argument, and Seifer stalked down the hall toward the stairwell with his hands shoved in his pockets. Go to ground? What fucking ground? Of all people, Seifer Almasy knew that a man could run out of places to hide in the world. 

It was bad enough that he had received a summons from Dr. Kadowaki that morning to come down to her office for a "talk." The nosy busybody. Truth be told, it shouldn't have surprised him that she had contacted him; Leonhart had probably mentioned that the knight had a few new screws loose. 

He smacked the doorframe as he exited the stairwell in frustration. There had been enough counseling sessions, enough hours of psychoanalysis, when _Dincht_ of all people had dragged him back to Balamb in handcuffs. 

It was just a fucking dream. He didn't even know why he had felt the need to say anything to Leonhart at all. A Freudian slip, a subconscious desire, Kadowaki had called it. Maybe he should lay off the caffeine before bed. 

He scratched his signature and identification number on the weapons check-out sheet, and the SeeD running the counter handed over a practice gunblade. Seifer hefted its weight in his hand and sneered at the SeeD, hoping to get a rise, a reaction, _anything_.

"You're cleared for an hour," the SeeD said instead, and turned his attention back to his terminal. 

_xx_

He had not been expecting her, but when soft footsteps slipped into Rinoa's hospital room, Squall could not comfortably say that he was surprised by her presence. 

"Hello." 

He rose as she came closer, accepting her embrace without argument. "I didn't know you were coming," he said. 

She was still in black, always in black. "Zell told me," Edea replied gently. "How is she?"

Squall sighed. "Fine. The doctors say she'll recover completely." He glanced down at Rinoa, at her dark hair splayed across starched white sheets, and was grateful when Edea did not disagree–she knew (_they all knew_) that no one recovered completely. Absently, he touched his shoulder, dress shirt masking a grim web of scar tissue. "Let's go to the cafeteria. I could use some coffee."

His matron nodded, and let herself be led out of the room. "I didn't mean to come without calling." 

"It's okay." He stopped as they almost bypassed the elevators; the stairs were right there, and he was so used to taking them that he had almost forgotten that she was there. Squall pressed the call button and listened to the elevator whine to life. "She'll be glad to see you." 

"If it's alright, I'll stay for a few days," Edea said. "If you want me to." 

"You're always welcome to stay," he said, the sincerity in his voice genuine. "I can get you a room at the hotel, if you'd like." 

"I can stay in Garden. Don't trouble yourself over it. I'll just use the old rooms–unless..." Her voice trailed off as her expression posed the unasked question. Squall shook his head. The apartment had been left alone when Cid had finally passed the year prior, kept open for Edea as she had mourned. Eventually, she had finally returned to Centra, and Zell Dincht went with her, taking his forced retirement in stride–Squall hated to admit it, but there was no use for a fighter with only one good hand. The rooms had remained empty, the doors kept locked and the code privy only to himself and Edea.

Descending to the hospital basement took far less time than he had anticipated, and he was briefly surprised when the doors opened with a soft _ding_. Squall followed her out, and touched her arm to guide her toward the small cafeteria. 

"Tea?" he asked.

"That's fine." She settled herself in a table near the wall, smoothing her skirt across her lap as Squall made for the snack bar. The room was filled with quiet chatter, broken intermittently by some child's voice rising and the subsequent shushing. Edea folded her hands neatly in her lap and smiled gently at a little boy staring unabashedly from a nearby table. 

"Here," Squall said, returning to stand in front of her, his body blocking out the child. "Careful. It's hot." 

"Thank you," she murmured. He sat down across from her as she extracted the tea bag from its packaging to dip it into the scalding water. There was a subtle snap as Squall pried back the tab on the lid of his coffee cup. He drank with disregard for the temperature of the beverage, and a quarter of the cup had gone before it was set back down on the table. 

"Almasy told me he's been dreaming like he did after the war," Squall said, and Edea flinched at the words even though she hadn't meant to. "Why?" 

"I don't know." 

"Why?" 

"I don't know, Squall." Her voice was unerringly soft and placid, her body language anything but as the heat of the drink in her hands started to radiate out and burn her palms uncomfortably. She let go of the cup. "I don't know." 

"Do you dream about it?"

"It? Ultimecia? The war, and the fact that my memories of the time are only half-remembered glimpses? I dream of it, yes." 

He hadn't been expecting such a straightforward answer, she realized, when his cup stopped halfway up on its return voyage to his lips. 

"I dream of it, and I always have. People dream, even if they say they've forgotten, even if they say they've moved on." 

Squall let out a soft huff. "I was worried," he said, and the words were a confession. Edea reached across the cool plastic expanse of the table and touched his hand. 

"Nothing will come of it," she reassured him. "Rinoa is stronger than I was; she won't give in, and she has a stable knight. What happened is pure chance, someone wanting to stir things up." 

"I know." 

"It will be alright." Her fingers smoothed the hairs down on the back of his hand, his skin warm and dry beneath her fingertips. "It will be alright." 

The young commander sighed again, and with an inflection in his voice that nearly broke Edea's heart, he extracted his hand from beneath hers and reminded her, "I'm not a child, you know." 

_xx_

The ground is cold beneath her feet, some distant part of her mind tells her, and Rinoa ignores it as she walks, oblivious to the questions, the voices that seem to come from far, far away that ask her if she needs any help. 

She wants to see the sky, that's all, she tells them with a smile on her lips and it seems to be enough to get her by; she notes the way their voices flow like molasses, the way her limbs move through space as if she is swimming.

This is a dream. 

The voice is telling her to go, go, go, reach the sky and the stars. 

This is a dream. 

There is a door in front of her, and so she opens it, surprised to find a staircase beyond, but descends like she is falling. The railing is solid under her hands as she pulls herself to her feet after a bit of a slip, and she keeps her grasp on it, descending to the next landing, and the next, until a bright green sign proclaiming "exit" slows her pace. 

She opens that door, too, and braces herself for a world of fire and a night sky that has gone blurry with her touch. 

There is no fire, but the air is warm against her skin and she surveys the sky. 

This is a dream, and she can retrace the path of the stars. 

The ground is hard under her feet as she walks, cool tile turning to cold stone turning to rough pavement, and so she keeps walking until rough has turned to damp grass, and there she stands, head back and her eyes fixed on the stars. 

"_Rinoa." _

_I like it here. _

The voice is stubborn but so is she, a Caraway, a Heartilly, a Leonhart all wrapped into one. 

Thum-tha-_thump_.

"_Rinoa, it's time to wake up now,"_ the voice tells her, and then strong hands are at her shoulders, guiding her back across damp grass to rough pavement to cold stone to cool tile. 

Rinoa thinks that she doesn't like to be _led_ like a child, and the voice in the back of her mind agrees. 

_xx_

He hadn't realized it was her for a few minutes, standing there barefoot in the grass, her little blue hospital gown fluttering in the wind like the train of that duster she had been so fond of in the war. 

"Rinoa?" he called, and Seifer frowned when she didn't even seem to notice him. "Rinoa, I don't think you're supposed to be out here..." 

His shoes squeaked against the wet grass as he crossed the hospital's lawn slowly. "Rinoa?"

Her eyes were fixed on something overhead, and when Seifer glanced up, all he saw was stars. "Rinoa, come on. I don't know how the hell Leonhart let you out of his sight." He put his hands on her shoulders carefully, guard up in case the reflexes that she had picked up the war sprang from dormancy and she tried to punch him in the face or something. 

It turned out that she went easily, moving with him back across the parking lot and into the lobby, where he signaled an orderly over. 

"Look, I don't know which room she's supposed to be in–" 

"Mrs. Leonhart?" The orderly took her from Seifer's grasp, and Rinoa's eyes shot open.

"No," she exclaimed, jerking out of the orderly's hold and pressing a hand to her forehead. Her face contorted, and for a split-second–

_he saw black feathered wings and hair like a raven's plumage, and she was his queen_

–Seifer shook his head, reaching out as Rinoa made to run for the exit. He circled an arm around her torso, his grip unforgivingly strong. "Rinoa, snap out of it." 

She struggled against him, clawing at his arms and tearing at his skin before she finally registered his voice. Rinoa stilled, staring at him for a long moment before her dark eyes rolled back into her head and she collapsed like a rag doll in his arms. 

"Rinoa!" Squall's voice, as near to panic as Seifer had ever heard it, carried across the lobby as the commander broke into a run. "What the--what_happened_?" 

"I don't know. You tell me. I found her outside." 

"You're not even supposed to _be_ here–Rinoa? Can you hear me? I need a _doctor_ over here!" 

Seifer backed off, hands out in surrender, and nearly knocked Edea over. 

_xx_

"It's probably just a reaction to the medication– sleepwalking is a common side effect," the doctor explained, drawing back from shining a small penlight in Rinoa's eyes. She did not stir, and he tucked the light away into a pocket. "I don't think she tore anything open, but we'll keep her an extra day or so for observation, and change her meds to something with a lower dose."

Squall nodded. 

"I really don't think we have anything to worry about, though," the doctor added cheerfully. "She'll probably feel a bit groggy when she wakes up, but that's to be expected." 

There was something about the way the man had used "we" that irritated Squall, but he couldn't quite figure out what it was. He nodded again. 

"Right." 

"I'll be back in a few hours to check on her." 

"Thanks." 

The door shut behind the doctor with a soft click.

_Burn the witch_.


End file.
